"Guy N. Smith - Blood Circuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

alcoholic would refuse a half-pint of shandy, fighting every inch of the way, an inveterate smoker tossing a
packet of cigarettes into a litter bin, steeling himself to walk on past the nearest tobacconist's shop.

Slade compromised. Somehow he had to divorce himself from cars. The Cortina presented him with the
ideal opportunity to make a start. He pressed down on the seat-adjustment lever, pushing against the
back-rest with his powerful shoulders. With some reluctance the seat slid back to the furthest notch. The
controls were still well within his reach, but not comfortably. That meant that he would continue to drive
steadily instead of hunching over the wheel and succumbing to instincts which even a man who has lost
his nerve on the track cannot entirely suppress. A lazy pose that defied speed.

Thirty m.p.h. Constant. Three cars and another lorry overtook him. He sensed their annoyance at his
own performance; impatience, muttered curses. He smiled to himself. It was going to be a long process,
but he would make it all the way back to the very bottom. Just another motorist cluttering up the
overcrowded roads. Or staying at home like a hermit. The choice was his.

The Cortina. Totally in contrast to everything which he had driven for the past five years. A 2000 XL
Estate. Power, a status symbol to the average man who had not quite made it to the Jag or Mercedes
faction. Another step up the social ladder for some, but several rungs down for Slade.

A lumbering giant, the way he was driving it. Three years old, 50,000 miles on the clock. Some rust on
the sills. A broken window-winder, a rip in the upholstery on the back seat. The pistons were knocking a
bit. He didn't give a damn. He hated cars. He kept on silently reminding himself of that fact.

He slowed down still further, moved over to the middle of the road, and turned right by an impressive
looking hotel, subconsciously noticing the sign on the adjacent car park which requested patrons to 'park
prettily'. The phrase appealed to his declining sense of humour, so starkly removed from circuit
regulations. A request, not an order.

The car shuddered, still in top gear. That pleased him even more, a sure sign that he was returning to the
realm of the average motorist. He should have changed down into third, maybe second. The omission
had been deliberate although he refused to admit it.

Parked cars, some two or three feet from the kerb, as he took the road on the right. Lack of forethought
and consideration for other motorists. He would become like that eventually, too.

The narrow winding road headed out into remote countryside, thickly wooded hills on either side. He
took a fork to the left; now the roads were narrower, snaking bends, and twice he had to pull well over
to the left in order to avoid oncoming cattle-trucks. More shuddering, the engine labouring, and as the
lanes began to rise sharply he was forced down into second gear. High hedges obscured his view on
either side, not that he was interested in panoramic scenery. Mark Slade wasn't interested in anything in
particular.

The lanes narrowed still more, and he was compelled to remain in second gear. No room for oncoming
vehicles to pass. He remembered those two trucks, the speed at which they had been travelling . . . blind
bends. A clammy hand wiped the sweat from his forehead. One thing was a certainty. He had lost his
nerve, all right. Daytona or out here, it was all the same.

On through a small village, half-timbered houses, many in need of restoration, a brook rushing down the
side of the road. Houses on one side, a hedge, fields, hills on the other. The muddy lane rose even more
sharply once he was clear of this place of semi-primitive civilisation. Life was all so easy for some people.